


Waterfall of Sweet Dreams

by eatingcroutons



Category: Inside Daisy Clover
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Canon Queer Character, Dissociation, F/M, Implied/Referenced Canon Past Dub-con, Implied/Referenced Canon Underage Sex, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Canon Fix-It, Suicidal Thoughts, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-18
Updated: 2015-01-18
Packaged: 2018-03-08 03:51:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3194264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eatingcroutons/pseuds/eatingcroutons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His name was the only thing they changed about him. On paper, at least.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fahre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fahre/gifts).



> Dedicated to [fahre](http://archiveofourown.org/users/fahre), who watched this movie with me, cried a lot about this movie with me, and was kind enough to beta this fic. (Any remaining mistakes are of course my own.) Thanks also to [jasper](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaspersfic) who cheered me on in IRC and helped me look up Bible quotes.
> 
> I'm assuming that very few people have actually seen this 50-year-old movie, let alone will have any interest in fic about it, but if you want to get in touch I'm also on [tumblr](http://eatingcroutons.tumblr.com/) :)
> 
> Full details of tags in end notes.

_Hello, Mrs. Wade Lewis_ she says and he realizes that he can't do this.

He doesn't know what he was even thinking. So he married the girl: so what? So he owns her, now, but not really. Not when Swan still owns them both. Swan and his perfectly organized press-appropriate honeymoon, which Wade drove right past and into the desert, as far into the middle of nowhere as he could.

And now what?

Now he fucks her again, like the perfect husband Wade Lewis is, and they giggle in bed and in three days' time it's back to LA, back to Hollywood. Now we are children of Swan.

He pours himself a drink, downs it in one swallow. Doesn't bother with a glass for the next one.

She's still asleep, still blissfully naively happy, and for a moment he feels a surge of rage, wants to rip her apart, tear the whole room apart, the whole goddamn world. But when he stands up everything lurches and blurs, anger dissipating into a dull, vague throb.

He takes another swig of whiskey to help it along.

The desert sun is blinding, and he gropes around for his shades, fumbles them on. They don't make much difference. It's ninety-fuck degrees and he's thirsty already, considers going back for Daisy's bottle of sickeningly sweet sherry but he's not sure he'll be able to breathe if he goes back into that cage.

His arms give out when he tries to jump the convertible's door so he opens it instead, falls into the driver's seat.

He drives, and he drives, and he drives.

He can't bring himself to cross the California border, so he follows it north. The sun and the whiskey start to get to him soon enough; he pulls over to get a soda but the girl at the counter _squeals_ at the sight of him and he almost trips over a magazine rack as he flees, stomach turning.

He rests his forehead on the burning leather of the steering wheel for long, long minutes, breathing deep to fight the nausea.

By the time he's halfway across Nevada his head is killing him. He sits in the shower of a shitty little hotel room in a shitty little town, cold water sluicing down his spine until he leans back, lets some of it fall into his mouth.

His stomach growls.

He slips sideways until he's curled on his side, watching water swirl into the drain. A few stubborn dark hairs cling to the metal cover, the water's currents never quite tugging hard enough to pull them free.

He's shivering uncontrollably when he wakes.

Even after he's dry his fingers are so stiff he can barely fumble his buttons together. His stomach aches so he swallows what's left of the whiskey, feels the warmth spread out through his chest like blood running back into his veins.

The bottle doesn't break when he drops it on the floor, and for a moment he just stares at it, shiny and whole with its big bright label. Empty.

California's still there, a constant looming presence just a few dozen miles to the west, and he doesn't know what he'll do when he reaches the end of it. Maybe follow the border around, all the way to the coast.

Maybe keep driving, out into the deep, dark ocean.

He drifts towards Cal Neva, one last night before he crosses back into inevitability.

He meanders around the resort until he finds another bottle. Until he finds another boy. This time the room is top-of-the-line, the best Swan's money can buy, and the lights blur into a haze outside the windows as Wade rides the boy until he can't feel anything but the cock spearing him open over, and over, and over.

"You got a call," the boy says when Wade gets out of the shower. "Some old lady said you've got a contract to sign. Asked if I was the new lover."

"Not any more." Wade ignores the way the boy's expression sours, turns away and pours a shot of gin while he silently gathers up his things and leaves.

His hand is trembling so badly only half the gin makes it to his mouth.

Room service delivers a dozen dishes of things he doesn't taste. He forces himself to eat, mechanical. You don't change your look without permission: you don't get thin, you don't get fat, you don't get a say in this.

He can't go back.

He takes as much money as he can from Swan's accounts, trades in the car for something solid, reliable.He turns his back squarely on California, heads deep into the empty heart of the country.

Days turn into weeks, then into months.

He turns 21 drinking home-made liquor in a worn-out motel bed in a town Wade Lewis has never heard of. In a town that's never heard of Wade Lewis.

He hadn't thought there was a place on Earth the Word of Swan couldn't reach.

The money's enough to last a good while. He stops at diners, at general stores, stocks up on the cheapest spirits he can find and avoids the postcard stands. Here in the desert places are counties so backwards they're still living under Prohibition, but it's easy enough to let out just enough of the Wade Lewis charm to sweet talk himself into a bottle of moonshine. Mile after drudging mile he manages to drag himself across the Bible Belt in an alcoholic stupor.

The booze and the boys are cheap in New Orleans, and with his hair growing out and the little stubble he manages to grow, he makes it a whole three weeks before he's recognized.

When he runs out of east he heads north. Finds himself in quiet, suburban, civilized towns. Flags on houses, neatly trimmed lawns.

It's getting too cold to sleep in the car; one afternoon after shivering in the back seat for an hour he gives up, staggers out in search of someplace that's at least windproof. Comes across a town hall all lit up from the inside, walks around it until he finds a side door he can quietly slip through.

It's warm, and it's dry, and there's clearly something going on in the main hall. He puts a hand on the wall for balance, follows it until he can look around the corner.

There's a stage, and a crowd, and a boy. Sets made out of brightly-painted cardboard. Hand-sewn costumes. The boy can't be more than thirteen, fourteen, but he's got the look -- the eyes, the hair, the set of his shoulders and jut of his hip as he recites --

Wade turns and runs, barely makes it back out the side door before he's retching up half a bottle of bourbon, vomiting over and over and over until his throat is raw and his stomach is spasming empty, trying to force out something buried far, far too deep to shift.

_Be all my sins remember'd._

His stomach gives up out of sheer exhaustion, muscles aching sharp as he manages to crawl a few feet along the wall before slumping against it.

It hurts his diaphragm even to breathe, but as he sucks in air he feels it start to bubble back out of his throat, and for the second time in his life he realizes _this is it_ , he's finally lost it, and what would have been laughter turns hysterical, turns into great gasping sobs and every one feels like it's tearing apart his abused stomach muscles until he puts his head between his knees and _screams_.

He wants to do it again, wants to scream and scream until the end of time but it takes him a few seconds to catch his breath -- and suddenly the moment passes and he's just drained, exhausted, and he just can't.

Tears drip down his face, but he doesn't have the strength left in him to sob.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Implied/Referenced Canon Underage Sex:** In the film, Lewis Wade has sex with and then marries Daisy Clover when she is 15 years old. This fic begins with their honeymoon, where they have sex again. This is only mentioned in the fic, with no graphic details. (Although Lewis later sleeps with an OC he thinks of as a "boy" in this fic, this character was not intended to be underage.)  
>  **Underage Drinking, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism:** Lewis abuses alcohol throughout the film and this fic, and only turns 21 partway through this fic.  
>  **Suicidal Thoughts:** A couple of times in this fic, Lewis considers suicide in passing.  
>  **Dissociation:** Lewis Wade had the identity of Wade Lewis forced upon in prior to the film. During this fic he struggles to re-establish his own identity.  
>  **Implied/Referenced Canon Past Dub-con:** My read of the film was that in the past, Lewis has been pressured or coerced into sex that he would not have felt he was in a position to refuse.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm assuming that very few people have actually seen this 50-year-old movie, let alone will have any interest in fic about it, but if you want to get in touch I'm also on [tumblr](http://eatingcroutons.tumblr.com/) :)
> 
> Full details of tags in notes.

"Who the hell are you?"

He's still huddled in the cold, surrounded by the stench of his own sick. He squints up at the man standing over him. Can't make out any details.

"I'm Wade Lewis," he says finally, mouth twisting into a mockery of the smile they taught him. "Every American girl's dream."

The man snorts. "Like hell you are. Go on, get out of here before I make you clean this up yourself."

"I..." He struggles to get his feet under him, makes it to half-standing, leaning heavily on the wall. "I'm Wade Lewis. I _am_." He can hear the edge of desperation in his own voice.

"You dumb drunk, you don't even look like him. Not that I give a damn. You wanna be Wade Lewis, you go right ahead. But whoever you wanna be, go be him somewhere else. The kids in there don't need the likes of you hanging around."

His knees feel weak, his whole body feels weak, he just wants to slump back down to the ground and drink himself to sleep. Maybe freeze to death overnight. "I've got nowhere to go," he whispers, admitting it at last.

The man sighs. "Look, there's -- there's a church a couple of blocks down. They'll take you in for the night if you need a roof. But you can't stay here."

\---

At the church a kind-looking woman looks him up and down, waves him inside, and asks for his name.

He tells her it's Hal.

In the next town he's Mark; in the one after that, Antony. He tries on all the names he learned as a boy. In a flight of fancy he spends a week as Julius, secluding himself in a honeymoon suite and drinking himself sick on champagne.

Somewhere in West Virginia a man tells him, "You don't look like a Sebastian."

"What does a Sebastian look like?" he asks.

On the anniversary of their marriage, he sends Daisy a postcard. He doesn't sign it.

The week after that he sends another: "The instruments of darkness tell us truths."

He changes his name more often than his socks, and changes his story right along with it. Orphaned at seven. Harvard-trained businessman. Struggling musician with four ex-wives. He slips through identities like a cutter through water, letting them nudge him this way and that, never too far in any direction. For the first time in his life, he's setting his own course.

By the time he makes it to New York it's a game: he spends two nights as Tom in the Central Park Hooverville, then checks into the Waldorf Astoria as Edgar.

It seems as good a place as any to rest for a while. He sends Daisy a postcard of the Empire State Building, but passes most of his time in the hotel bar, deciding which kind of cocktail Edgar likes best.

Three days later he's nursing a dry martini when someone hops up onto the bar stool next to him in a flounce of skirts.

"Hey, stranger," she says, leaning an elbow on the bar. "You come here often?"

For a moment he just stares, dumbstruck.

"Don't you know it's rude to ignore a lady's question? Are you gonna at least tell me your name?"

He feels a slow smile spread across his face, and reaches over the bar to tip his martini into the sink.

"Lewis Wade."

\---

She books them an airplane back to California, because of course she's exactly the kind of goddamn lunatic who likes to fly. It's the most terrifying experience of Lewis's life; after their first fuel stop in Nashville he refuses to get back on board.

Daisy takes his hand and promises everything will be all right, and he wants so hard to believe her.

She holds his hand all the way to Los Angeles.

They go back to her place -- her own place, not Swan's -- and she invites him in, shows him around her tiny one bedroom apartment, tells him to make himself at home.

He wipes his palms on his slacks when she turns to the dresser to clean off her makeup. Once she's done, he steps forward and kisses her.

This is something Lewis Wade can do. Lewis Wade can choose to give her this. Nobody is forcing him to do this.

"Hey," she says, pulling back. "Be straight with me here. Are kissing me because you wanna kiss me, or are you kissing me because you think you're s'posed to?"

"I'm." Lewis swallows down the butterflies threatening to escape his stomach. Daisy grabs him by the shoulders, holds him at arm's length and looks him critically up and down. She's got her Serious Face on, the one that's always looked adorably out of place on her pretty young features, but for once it doesn't make Lewis want to laugh.

"I've got a rule. Don't do anything you don't wanna do. That goes for me, and it goes for you. You got that?" She pokes him in the chest for emphasis. "Nothing. You. Don't. Wanna. Do. That's how we stop playing Swan's game. That's how we beat him."

Lewis swallows again, blinking hard. He wants to be what she needs.

"I don't..." he starts, before his voice chokes up. I don't know what I want. _I don't know._

Daisy's face softens and she pulls him in for a hug, buries her face against his neck, tiny arms wrapped around him tight as a bear. Lewis shudders as all the tension in his body drains right out through his feet, grabs onto her as he collapses, nearly bringing them both to the floor. But she's always been stronger than she looked.

He muffles his sobs against her hair, still as thick and soft as he remembers. 

\---

They sleep together, in the only way they ever should have.

When they wake she's full of plans: she's got seven months left of her contract, and she's not a minor any more, and there's no way in hell she's going to sign another. Swan's already poached most of the money from her pictures but there are a hundred, a thousand other Hollywood giants who'll sign her up as a star on her own terms.

"And then," she says, cutting off his reply with a finger in the air, "we're going to write a book."

He blinks. "A _book_?"

"Don't give me that tone. I learned to sing and I learned to act and I'll learn to write. And you and me, we're gonna write about how Swan kills mothers and steals children and that'll be the end of Swan Studios." She lifts her chin, defiant.

He feels it bubbling up inside him, but doesn't recognize the emotion until it bursts out of him in a fit of laughter: he laughs, and laughs, and laughs until he's doubled over with joy. The monstrous child has grown into a _terrifying_ adult, and if he were a better person he might even feel sorry for Swan.

"He won't know what hit him," Lewis finally manages to gasp out. 

"Not with you on my side. So," she holds out her hand, "partners?"

"Sure," he says, still chuckling. "But the press'll have a field day when Swan tells them you're living in sin with your ex-husband."

"We'll remarry," she declares, "Only this time I'll be Mrs. Lewis Wade. And if you want to... well, I won't tell if you don't. So. What do you say?"

He stands up straight and takes her face in both his hands, grinning. "This above all: to thine own self be true." When she smiles back he kisses her forehead, whispers it one more time against her skin: "To thine own self be true."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Implied/Referenced Canon Underage Sex:** In the film, Lewis Wade has sex with and then marries Daisy Clover when she is 15 years old. This fic begins with their honeymoon, where they have sex again. This is only mentioned in the fic, with no graphic details. (Although Lewis later sleeps with an OC he thinks of as a "boy" in this fic, this character was not intended to be underage.)  
>  **Underage Drinking, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism:** Lewis abuses alcohol throughout the film and this fic, and only turns 21 partway through this fic.  
>  **Suicidal Thoughts:** A couple of times in this fic, Lewis considers suicide in passing.  
>  **Dissociation:** Lewis Wade had the identity of Wade Lewis forced upon in prior to the film. During this fic he struggles to re-establish his own identity.  
>  **Implied/Referenced Canon Past Dub-con:** My read of the film was that in the past, Lewis has been pressured or coerced into sex that he would not have felt he was in a position to refuse.


End file.
